


Minimalism

by dance4thedead



Series: Constrained Writing Pieces [5]
Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-24 21:54:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4936744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dance4thedead/pseuds/dance4thedead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grell and Angelina, after another Jack the Ripper murder. POV Grell.</p><p>A postmodern experimental piece, sans verbs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Minimalism

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Минимализм](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6236311) by [Frau_Anhelika_Rotenstaub](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frau_Anhelika_Rotenstaub/pseuds/Frau_Anhelika_Rotenstaub)
  * Translation into Українська available: [Мінімалізм](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6236389) by [Frau_Anhelika_Rotenstaub](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frau_Anhelika_Rotenstaub/pseuds/Frau_Anhelika_Rotenstaub)



Curls of blood on the water. More water, more water—warm this time. Clear rivers over the skin on both of our bodies.

A first towel. The droplets no longer on Angelina's back. Her beautiful pale back. The blue veins beneath it.

A second towel over her head. My fingers deep in the damp terry cloth. Her scalp under the pads of my fingertips. Her soft moans from my touch.

A towel for my body. Slick, wet skin to damp flesh, rosy from our shower. No more blood. No more grime. Only this: our clean, untainted bodies free of sin.

Her hand in mine. Bathroom to bedroom. My shoulder blades to the mattress. Fingers in the bedsheets. Her mouth to mine like a wave against a seawall: forceful but passionate, simple—and yet at the same time—one of the greatest natural wonders of this world.

Her hands in my hair. A pause for breath. Her small gasps and low hums. My tongue over the span of her flesh.

My hands on her hips. Her body, my temple. Her name, my prayer.  

Her gaze on me. Not windows to the soul, no. Shakespeare's grave error: my mistress, her eyes, the same most certainly, as the sun. Not even that—more stunning, more radiant … nearly inconceivably so.

A butterfly on the breeze, wings out to an overwhelmingly warm sunshine. Pleasant. Complete.

The two of us on her bed, soft breaths from our chests. My eyes open and her eyes not. Her body against mine.

My Laura. My muse. My donna angelicata. One hell of a woman … Angelina Dalles, by any other name.

Immortal in my memory alone.


End file.
